


I'm A Rover, Seldom Sober

by hubrisandwax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Pre-Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has made a habit of wandering through the country late at night, drunk, without Sam's knowledge. Tonight is different, though. Tonight, there are no stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A Rover, Seldom Sober

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble that turned into into a bit of a monster. Inspired by [this post](http://castielnovak.tumblr.com/post/46991698923/ajkdla-this-damn-song-is-giving-me-very-intense) on tumblr, and the lyrics to the old Celtic folk song, 'I'm a Rover'.

_11:59_

The digital clock beside Dean’s bed glares at him as the seconds drip by slowly, pooling into minutes, angry red numbers burned into the dark surrounds. He feels like he’s been lying here for hours, listening to the soft breathing from the bed beside his, Sam slowly drifts off to dreamland. In reality, it’s only been forty-five minutes.

Dean sighs irritably and rolls over onto his other side.

It’s one of those rare nights where they don’t have a case, and Dean feels restless. He likes to feel that he has a purpose. He likes – hell, no, _needs_ – to be needed. Travelling around the country, roving like Dean and Sal in _On the Road_ – Dean Winchester is a man of action, desperate for constant motion. Whether that means having the familiar scent of leather and gentle rumble from his baby’s engine lulling him into slumber, or the puzzle of a case rolling restlessly through his thoughts as he tries to fall into sleep’s uneasy embrace, Dean doesn’t mind. But lying on a lumpy motel mattress in the middle of upstate New York without a case is far from Dean’s ideal; it makes him feel as if his mind is stagnating.

And to top his anxiety off, he hasn’t heard from Cas in weeks - which means he can’t stop thinking about that damned angel in the ridiculous trench coat.

Sighing into his pillow, he wonders idly if he still has that bottle of Jack stuffed in his duffle, hidden away from Sam’s sad, disappointed girl eyes. Dude always had an issue with Dean’s drinking, just as he had with Dad’s. At least Dean’s not a moody, violent drunk – more the introspective sort. Sam really can’t complain. If Dean wants to drown his demons in alcohol, that’s his business.

Too bad the little fuckers can swim.

As the little numbers on the alarm clock roll over to 12:10, Dean makes a decision. He rolls soundlessly off the bed and uses the screen of his cellphone as a light to guide him through the darkened room. Shrugging on a jacket, collecting his keys, and toeing on his shoes, he grabs the bottle of Jack from his bag, and slips quietly through the door. It clicks satisfyingly behind him.

There are no stars out tonight: that’s the first thing Dean observes as he stands on the veranda, fisting his hands into his pockets, and breathing in the brisk air. At least the cold reminds him that he’s alive.

He walks over to the Impala and leans against its hood, twisting the lid off the bottle and taking a deep swill. The golden liquid floods across his tongue and down into his mouth, warm and sharp and familiar. It’s delicious. He strokes his baby underneath him affectionately, wondering if he should take her out. Instead the energy thrumming through his veins wins out; tonight will be one of those nights that his legs control the destination. He takes another mouthful and begins to walk across the gravel and into the open fields.

The air is clear and sweet, perfumed - as country air so often is - by grass and pollen, heady and rich. Moonlight trickles across the landscape, casting the world in hues of white and sliver. Everything glows. Stars have been snuffed out by both the intensity of the moonlight and the thin, reedy clouds that blanket the sky. The darkness is oppressive, but the moon appears to guide him. It reminds him of Cas, bright and intense and beautiful as it hangs innocently in the sky. He wonders what the angel would say if he were here with Dean. 

Fuck, he misses Cas. It’s a physical ache deep in his gut. He feels the agony of it with every breath; it’s like a knife’s edge pressed against his throat, and suddenly he’s choking on it.

He’s drunk at least a fifth of the jack by now, and he can no longer see the motel behind him.

It’s not the first time Dean has found himself in the middle of an empty field, the world liquor-glazed and distant like a movie reel. It’s not the first time Dean has craved Cas’ presence this deeply, either. Getting drunk and stumbling through fields has been a recent habit of Dean’s when he and Sam aren’t on a case. It allows him to settle and order his thoughts, to fight his feelings for Cas away, and swallow them down with the whiskey. To stare at the stars and understand the enormity of space; how inconsequential he – and their little planet – are. In the morning, life’s always a little more manageable.

But tonight feels different. Tonight, Dean is drowning in his feelings as opposed to watching them swirl down the plughole.

Cas is Dean’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. Dean takes a few more angry steps forward, swallowing down some more alcohol. He would never intentionally threaten or fuck up the best friendship he’s ever had by admitting that he has a stupid crush – like a fucking twelve year old - on the beautiful, broken, rebel angel. How could a friggin’ Angel of the freaking Lord – who has watched the entire world from its infancy, every stupid mistake humanity has ever made; who sees sex as tedious, repetitious – ever reciprocate feelings for gutter-soul Dean who has built his entire existence around his absent and fucked up father (daddy’s little blunt instrument) and who has tortured souls in hell (and enjoyed it, he reminds himself bitterly) and who started the goddamn apocalypse - beyond the entirely platonic love he’s been conditioned to feel by God?

Castiel is a manifestation of celestial intent; every action he takes is founded in goodness, in love. Dean is a selfish thirty-something alcoholic with commitment issues, a GED, and a give ‘em hell attitude. He’s about the farthest one can stray from angelic, and that’s saying something, because his brother was a demon-blood junkie addict whose body was destined to be Lucifer’s meatsuit.

Dean wonders if this is what Romeo was lamenting about in _Romeo and Juliet_ ; fucking star crossed lovers.

Regardless of his feelings, Dean just wants Castiel back. To know that he’s okay; that he’s safe. He can’t stand this waiting game. “Goddamn it, Cas,” he slurs out loud as he stumbles over the crest of a hill.

And, as if his thoughts – prayers – have been answered, there stands the angel, gazing up into the sky as if it holds the answer to the meaning of life.

Alcohol inhibiting Dean’s control over his thoughts, he thinks that Cas – in this moment - might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

(He wonders if, perhaps, he’s actually dreaming. Maybe he never left the hotel room at all). 

“Dean?” Cas rumbles, turning to face him, frowning, his voice smoke and whisky and broken glass. “What are you doing here? Are you… drunk?”

“More like I should be asking you the same question,” Dean mumbles, standing opposite Cas and eying him warily. “And does it matter? Didn’t take me a liquor store.”

Castiel continues to frown across at him, and Dean groans: “C’mon, am I dreaming?”

“What?”

“How the fuck are you here, of all places? This must be happening in my head.”

“I – no.” Cas looks adorably bemused as Dean gazes across at him. “I felt a… pull to this location. So I flew here immediately.” He folds his long legs underneath himself and falls gracefully to the grass, pulling Dean with him, until they’re both sprawled across the tails of Cas’ trench coat, resting side by side, propped up by their arms. They’re bathed in unadulterated moonlight; it forms a halo around Castiel’s head as he looks across at Dean, making him look every bit like the angel he is.

Dean waits a beat before asking, “So where have you been?”

Cas doesn’t answer. Dean makes an incoherent noise of protest in the back of his throat.

“It’s been fucking weeks, dude. You can’t go all _I Know What You Did Last Summer_ on my ass.” He head-butts Cas’ shoulder. Instead of replying, Cas turns his head and stares back up at the moon. “Oh, for Christ’s-“

“Pease don’t use that name in vain.” Cas’ intense gaze is back on Dean’s face again as he shifts into a half rise. Dean laughs, moving until his head is resting on Cas’ thigh. He’s too drunk and too happy to see Cas to care about the intimate position, and Cas doesn’t push him off; on the contrary, his hand moves until it’s resting in Dean’s hair protectively, the length of his body. (awesome bit of fluff, but their actions are confused. are they sitting down side by side? or lying on each other? idk what’s happening)

“Anyway, s’nice to see you, even if it is unexpected.” Dean sighs contentedly as Cas’ fingers start carding absent-mindedly through his sandy-brown tufts.

“You know I’d always rather be here with you, Dean.”

“Still think I’m dreaming,” Dean mumbles into Cas’ holy tax accountant pants a few moments later. He smells like cinnamon and earth and the world after it rains.

“Maybe you are,” Cas whispers. Dean feels a calmness wash over him, the world fading out to muted tones of de-saturated colour, until his eyelids are too heavy to keep open.

Dean wakes the next morning in the scratchy motel bed with no hangover, a patchy memory, and a feather the length of his forearm hidden under his pillow.

Fucking angels.

* * *

 

> **_I'm a rover, seldom sober_ **
> 
> **_I'm a rover of high degree_ **
> 
> **_It's when I'm drinkin'_ **
> 
> **_I'm always thinkin' h_** **_ow to gain my love's company_ **
> 
> **_Thought the night be as dark as dungeon_ **
> 
> **_Not a star can be seen above_ **
> 
> **_I will be guided without a stumble_ **
> 
> **_Into the arms of my own true love_ **


End file.
